sweet little word without even a name yet you stand there, knobby-kneed, and dirt poor where

nothing but the wild weeds would grow and the hardy, tough, wildflowers mane that grows on the highways, grows on the road there in the gardens tended by no one, of many-headed foliage ascended, crown of anonymous flowers, an Ode to my silent alphabet without sound without melody nor measure nor grace how is it that you come mute to the page where what matters is what you can surmount? inaudible, ineffable nothing how beauteous you appear, a virgin.